Despite his languid pose, he looked powerful and dangerous, like a wild beast ready to attack its unsuspecting prey. Isabella’s heart thudded erratically as she stared at him, mesmerized by the raw, masculine emotions she sensed within him.
Face expressionless, his steely gray eyes impenetrable, Damien repeated his question. “Where is Jenkins?”
With difficulty, Isabella dragged her eyes away from his bronzed, muscular chest.
“Mr. Jenkins is in the dining room with the rest of the household eating his dinner.” She gave him an exasperated glare. “Which is where you belong. I spent the better part of the day preparing supper. I hope you will at least do me the courtesy of eating some of it.”
Damien turned his head and gave Isabella an irritated stare. He mockingly lifted the half-finished glass of brandy toward her in a light salute before bringing it to his lips. Downing the contents in two swallows, he flung out his arm and presented Isabella the empty goblet.
“Would you be so kind as to replenish my glass before you leave?”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “You drink too much,” she ventured boldly.
“And you meddle too often, so I suppose that makes us a well-matched pair.”
Isabella muttered indignantly under her breath. She moved toward him slowly, her eyes pinned to his handsome face. She reluctantly filled his glass, then set the bottle down, just a hairsbreadth beyond Damien’s reach. Making a wide berth of the earl, Isabella paused before the fire, warming her hands over the flames.
The tension increased with the growing silence. Isabella was so acutely aware of Damien that she could feel her skin prickle. She cleared her throat.
“What is wrong, Damien?” she finally asked.
Pain flashed briefly in the earl’s eyes, but her back was toward him and she did not see it. He felt a great need to confide this latest disaster that had befallen him to Isabella, but it was difficult for him to share the burden. Isolation and loneliness had been a part of Damien’s life for so long that he’d become accustomed to the emptiness that governed his life. It was an almost impossible habit to break.
“Nothing is wrong, Isabella.” A muscle knotted his jaw. “I only wish to be left in peace.”
Isabella pivoted slowly, determined to face the underlying bitterness in his voice, and noticed for the first time the sheet of parchment Damien clutched tightly in his left hand.
“What is that?”
Damien gave her a crooked smile. “Are you referring to this document, per chance?” The earl held the offending piece of paper aloft, as though it possessed a noxious odor. “This, my dear Isabella, is a letter from my illustrious and disgustingly rich brother-in-law, Lord Poole.”
Isabella did not miss the importance of the name. “What has Lord Poole done now?”
Damien took another fortifying sip of brandy before answering. “It appears that Poole has somehow managed to purchase all the remaining mortgages held against Whatley Grange. He has written this charming letter informing me of this fact and has given me fair warning that he intends to call in all debts in sixty days’ time.”
“Sixty days! Good heavens, Damien, what will you do?”
“I suppose I shall attempt to borrow the funds I need from a bank or even a moneylender, although I have nothing of sufficient value to place as collateral. Beyond that, I have not as yet formulated a practical solution. It seems I have as much a chance of holding on to Whatley Grange as I do of finding Lady Anne’s treasure.”
The earl’s sarcastic tone betrayed none of his emotions, but Isabella knew his pain and frustration must run deep. Her heart constricted in alarm. Damien had devoted many years of his life to working hard to make The Grange solvent. It must be maddening to know he was so close to losing what he had worked so tirelessly to preserve.
Isabella sank slowly to her knees beside his chair. Her slender hand reached out and gently caressed his forearm, offering silent comfort, seeking in some small way to ease his torment.
“I am so sorry, Damien.”
At the sound of her voice, the earl dropped his eyes to the delicate fingers softly stroking his arm. Her hand looked small and feminine against the stark whiteness of his shirt. Hers was a gentle touch, a comforting touch. A touch of understanding and kinship. Her tenderness wrenched at his chest, yet his male pride demanded a token resistance and he shifted in the chair, attempting to evade her.
Isabella felt his withdrawal and hooked her fingers firmly around his wrist, refusing to break the physical bond. Their wills clashed, but Damien soon relented and gradually relaxed, allowing her soft touch to sooth his bruised spirit.
The earl set his glass of brandy on the floor and closed his eyes. Leaning his dark head back against the chair, he let his mind wander aimlessly as Isabella’s hand continued to lightly caress him. The unique way she touched him made him feel oddly cherished. It gave him a sense of strength that made him feel it was possible to triumph over any adversity. Even the despicable Lord Poole.
Isabella could feel the tension slowly leaving the earl’s body. The building tension within her also eased. How she hated to see him suffer! Nearly overcome with emotion for him, Isabella moved her cheek softly against the back of his hand.
Damien eyes flew open. He twisted his head to glance down at her just as she turned his palm up and pressed a featherlight kiss on the inside of his wrist.
Tentatively, the earl reached across with his free arm. His hand hovered for several seconds before he succumbed to temptation and placed his hand upon her head. His fingers delved softly into Isabella’s tight chignon, scattering her hair pins and releasing her hair from its strict confines.
“You are a wonder, Isabella,” he whispered softly. When she turned her head up to reply, Damien swiftly leaned down and captured her lips.
